As time wore on it was evident the veterans were being penned closer and closer by their antagonists. Presently a dangerous scrimmage was formed just in front of their goal. For some minutes the ball was invisible, then by an apparently preconcerted movement the forwards of the Fifteen loosened and let it dart back into the open behind them, where lurked Tempest ready to receive it. He did not wait to pick it up, but ran to meet it with a flying kick. For a moment it seemed doubtful whether it would clear the onward rush of Redwood and his forwards. But it did, and rose steadily and beautifully over their heads, and with the wind straight upon it, reached the goal and skimmed over the bar, amid the loud shouts of every one, conspicuous among which was my shrill voice.
Half-time! Now was my chance; and before the shouting had ceased, or the discomfited Eleven had quite realised their misfortune, I darted into the sacred enclosure, and presented the captain with his belt.
“I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t in time,” said I. “You’d just begun when I got back.”
“Thanks, youngster, it’s all right,” said Redwood, wonderfully cheerful, as it seemed to me; “here, take care of this for me,” and he divested himself of the belt he was wearing and donned the new one.
“You’ll have the wind with you now,” I ventured to observe.
“Yes,” said he with a nod, “I think we shall do the trick this time, eh?”
“Rather,” said I; and departed elated, not so much to have been spared the rebuke I expected, but to be talked to by such a hero, as if I was not a junior at all, but a comrade.
My chums when I rejoined them were anxious to prevent my being too much puffed up by my exploit.
“Good old Sarah Toady,” cried Trimble, as I approached. “Is he coming?”
“Who? Where?” I inquired.